


The Warrior's Code

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Series: Commander Shepard, the Thunder from Down Under [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Big Damn Heroes, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Military Training, One Night Stands, Pre-Canon, Prequel, some AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5188499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regan Shepard is a gangbanger, a member of the Tenth Street Reds, but even she had her limits. One decision during a job led to her leaving the streets behind for a life in the military and the path that would write her name in the stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When Hope and Violence Collide

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I guess it’s about time I write some canon Regan Shepard. Trigger warnings for child abuse and neglect, drug use, mentions of human trafficking, violence and death involving minors, and fantastic racism. Playing slightly with the timeline for reasons of story. The title comes from the Dropkick Murphys' song 'The Warrior's Code' - Regan's personal soundtrack is very Celtic punk rock/Australian 1980s pub rock.

High Street in Southport managed to be both ironic and accurate in its name. Ancient prefabs were stacked in a Jenga game of rust-streaked dull grey blocks of ten or twelve, turning the ancient asphalt road into the bottom of a squalid canyon. The people here came in three types: the hopeless, which included the addicted and the abused; the hopeful, who still dared to dream; and finally the violent, who ruled over High Street with illegally modded guns and called themselves the Tenth Street Reds. Life sorted someone from High Street into their category by the age of twelve – you either learned to fight or you didn’t by then and the Reds wouldn’t take anyone younger.

            Regan Shepard was sixteen, a three-year veteran of the Reds’ security team who stood somewhere between the hopeful and the violent, and worried about today’s job. Finch and Weisman were flashing credit chits in the faces of the worst red sand addicts and talking softly to them; the pattern was that they were all mothers with very young children. Given that the Reds generally didn’t dabble in human trafficking and chose not to raise their own child soldiers when High Street was so effective, the change in routine troubled Regan to no end.

            But she held her position on one of the prefab tenement buildings, sniper rifle ready to take out anyone from the Ninth Street Blues from Smith Street or the Seventh Street Greens from Scarborough Street, with whom they were supposed to have an alliance. Regan trusted any accord between the gangs with the same amount of trust as she did the Department of Child Safety, which was not at all, and so she watched both directions equally. Finch had been making noises about some big deal that would benefit all the Reds, and while Regan was highly sceptical, she remained silent on the matter. Getting kicked out of the gang _now_ would be a death sentence.

            _Two years,_ she thought as she rubbed her aching hands. A block away from the thick sludgy Broadwater, the winter wind was bitterly cold and sliced through her thin prefab clothes. _Two years and I can leave._

Regan was sixteen and didn’t exist in the system. Short of being scooped up by DOCS and thrown into the foster care system, she couldn’t get a CIN (Citizen Identity Number) until eighteen, and only then by signing up for the Alliance military forces. With her skill as a sniper, they’d snap her up and put her into the system on _her_ terms. And if she had to go to some alien hellhole to fight more alien creatures – well, military survival rates were 75%, which was better than being in the Reds.

            In her perch, Regan was the first to see the shuttle painted in gold, white and black as it flew towards High Street. _Cerberus,_ she thought, heartbeat quickening. Little was known about the paramilitary organisation with its reputed ties to the Alliance military beyond its vehemently pro-human stance. Finch talked them up like they were the saviours of humanity, swearing he was going to join them one day but she was sceptical. She didn’t much like the cockatoos, the calamari and the ribbits yet they were part of the galaxy. You dealt with them like you did stomach ache or the running shits from too much nutri-paste – endured it and got on with your life.

            The shuttle landed and a curvaceous brunette in a white-and-black cat suit jumped out, hitting the ground gracefully despite her heeled boots, accompanied by a handsome older man with a little grey in his perfectly coiffed hair. Both of them looked too perfect, sculpted within an inch of their lives, and the woman glowed blue with biotics.

            At their arrival, Finch nodded to Weisman, who entered one of the prefabs. When he emerged, a couple of the other Reds from the south end towards Smith Street were with him, chivvying a half-dozen toddlers with three or four babies in their arms. The reality of what was going on hit Regan suddenly – the Reds, who’d always held themselves above the Greens and Blues when it came to human trafficking, had finally entered the trade.

            For a moment she was numb with shock – and then the part of her still hopeful merged with the part that knew violence since the day she’d stabbed her abusive mother with a fork and she readied her sniper rifle, peering down the scope at a man’s ruggedly handsome face. That face, the uncanny blue of his artificial eyes, would haunt her until the day she died. But she knew that if she killed him, Cerberus would purge High Street with blood and bullets. So instead she aimed up a little before pulling the trigger.

            “Fuck!” Finch yelled as the shot ricocheted around the tight rusty canyon of prefabs. “Regan, find that fucking-“

            His words were cut off as she planted a bullet in one of the Reds, dropping her instantly. Her third bullet, last in the heat-sink, took care of the other one delivering babies to Cerberus.

            “Get into the shuttle!” the woman snapped at the man in the business suit. “We’re being attacked!”

            “It’s one sniper, Miranda,” he responded loudly. “And it seems that one of your Reds has turned traitor, Finch, judging by the insignia on her jacket.”

            Regan popped the heat-sink and ducked behind the low parapet that concealed her from the other Reds. So much for hopes and dreams. She would die protecting children who didn’t have much to look forward on High Street – and found herself not giving a shit.

            Suddenly the rusty metal ladder overhead was torn from its wall with a sapphire glow as Ms. Biotic Barbie drew on her powers. “Get the children into the shuttle!” she snarled at the stunned Finch and Weisman.

            Regan was too busy watching the ladder be lifted to stop them. Then her survival instincts kicked in and she rolled as it suddenly slammed down, the rusted metal disintegrating on impact. She lost her sniper rifle and therefore her only weapon – time to run.

            Tearing off the cheap pleather jacket with its Reds insignia, Regan jumped off the far side of the prefab to the one below. There was an alley here that cut through to Worendo Street – still a slum but patrolled by the Blue Suns mercenary group, who indirectly sponsored the Ninth Street Blues. Territory in Southport was jealously guarded, no matter how small the thoroughfare.

            “Stop!” yelled someone in a Blue Suns uniform – one of the humans. They kept the turians off-world.

            Regan, of course, ignored him as the Cerberus Cheerleader found the ground entrance to the alley and looked down it at her, glowing blue as the sea and face promising death. As the sniper backed away, she stopped, put a hand to her ear and swore before turning around.

            “I said stop!” A beefy man, hard-faced and dark-eyed, grabbed her by the neck.

            Now she was going to get killed by a Blue Sun. How ironic.

            The merc hauled her by the scruff of the neck to face him. “What the hell’s going on?” he snapped.

            “The Reds are selling kids to Cerberus so I shot two of them!” Regan answered hotly. “My own fucking gang doing that!”

            “That’s the Reds’ best sniper,” said a bearded, dark-skinned man from the shadows.

            “Fuck, she looks fourteen,” the beefy merc noted.

            “Sixteen!” Regan corrected him.

            “Damn, not legal to hire.” The merc looked up as a couple cop cars actually dared to come this way, no doubt drawn by the Cerberus shuttle that just took off. “Bastards, the lot of them.”

            “Zaeed, we can’t have the cops interfering in our business,” the bearded man said tersely. “Let the girl go.”

            “Yeah, yeah, Vido.” Zaeed dropped Regan like a hot rock, scarred face twisting in a smirk. “Good luck, kid. When you hit eighteen, ask for Zaeed Massani at the Blue Suns recruitment office. Never can have too many snipers in a company.”

            “Thanks!” Regan said before beating feet. She needed somewhere to hide until the furore died down.

…

David Anderson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The southern end of the Brisbane Coast was everything that the Alliance didn’t want the Council races to see: squalid, crime-ridden and sometimes a literal hellhole. Some places were better than others, but Southport was fairly bad, and High Street apparently one of the worst places to be.

            So when an informant for the Alliance came forward with information on the identity of the sniper who shot two Tenth Street Reds and interrupted some kind of human trafficking operation, he was mildly surprised to discover it was a gangbanger who turned on her own allies – and rather more so to realise she was barely sixteen.

            “Nine out of ten prosecutors would be having her charged with two counts of attempted murder, possessing illegal firearms and resisting arrest,” noted the forensic psychologist who’d just finished interviewing the scrawny, brassy-haired girl.

            “But not this one?” he asked, turning around to face the slim, brown-haired woman.

            “She’s guilty and has admitted as much,” the psychologist continued grimly.

            Anderson looked sceptically over his shoulder at the stone-faced girl. He wouldn’t have been called down here without a good reason. “She doesn’t look it.”

            “She’s an undiagnosed high-functioning autistic,” was the psychologist’s reply. “And I called you instead of the watch-house because of two reasons. The first is that she turned on them because the Reds were trafficking babies and toddlers to Cerberus – fairly high-ranking members, if the girl’s description’s anything to go by – and the second is that she intended to enlist when she turned eighteen.”  
            “The Reds haven’t been known for human trafficking until now,” Major Gupta Patel of the ADF’s Enoggera barracks added. “But their current leaders Finch and Weisman have developed pro-Cerberus leanings – a lot of the merc companies and paramilitary groups ‘sponsor’ these gangs to get cannon fodder. Regan’s got her fair share of racism but apparently she feels that Cerberus goes too far and human trafficking is something she personally despises.”

            “What’s your point, Major?” Anderson asked, folding his arms.

            “There’s a decent kid beneath that surly façade, a decent kid with latent biotic abilities, the skill of a professional sniper and the drive to be better than what she is.” Gupta pointed his square chin in the girl’s direction. “There’s a born soldier in there.”

            “Aside from kicking the hell out of a plainclothes detective, Regan’s cooperated with the police,” the psychologist agreed. “Hell, she’s blown open most of the gang activity in Southport just by what she’s told us.”

            “It could be an attempt to plea-bargain,” Anderson pointed out, though he was intrigued.

            “Except we haven’t offered one. She fully expects jail.”

            Anderson ah’ed softly. “Let me make some phone calls,” he finally said noncommittally.

…

The door to the interview room opened, revealing a tall, black man with greying hair in an Alliance officer’s uniform and an Indian man in standard Alliance BDUs. Regan sat up suddenly, tugging on her wrinkled prefab top.

            The officer tossed her a protein bar and she caught it, unwrapping the pink wrapper (to show it was strawberry-flavoured) and gnawing on it after a nod of thanks. She was starving all the time these days and it wasn’t just because of her growing – she should be done with that by now.

            “Someone actually likes those,” the Indian muttered under his breath.

            “You ever been hungry?” the officer asked acerbically.

            “Often.”

            “Regan… What’s your surname?” The officer looked her up and down assessingly.

            “Umm, don’t have one,” she replied once she’d finished eating.

            “Dammit.” The black man sighed and scrubbed the back of his buzz-cut head. “I’m Captain David Anderson and this is Major Gupta Patel. We’re here to talk to you before a decision’s reached.”

            Regan’s palms began to sweat. “What about?” she asked warily.

            “Major Patel runs Enoggera, our training barracks in this part of the world,” Captain Anderson said, taking a seat across from her. “He believes there’s a good soldier beneath the gangbanger – and given that every person he’s picked out has wound up in the Interplanetary Combatives Academy and received an N designation, I consider him to be a good judge of character.”

            Regan wiped her hands on her pants. “I wanted to join the military, get myself a CIN, sir.”

            “I know.” Anderson’s brown eyes were stern and assessing. “You shot two people, evaded pursuit and violently resisted arrest.”

            “I thought that cop was one on the Reds’ payroll,” she muttered. “They’ve got a few ‘round here.”

            “We know.” It was Major Patel who spoke. “It doesn’t change the fact you have committed violent crimes – and they’re the ones we know about.”

            Anderson leaned forward in his seat, pinning Regan in hers with a hard gaze. “I want you to spill _everything_ you’ve done and why.”

            How could she tell him that it was join the security team or follow paths that no one should be forced down? Anderson looked like a man who had plenty of choices, a man who’d grown up never knowing homelessness or hunger or…

            “Well, my mum hit me one too many times when I was twelve so I stabbed her hand with a fork,” she began and talked until her throat was dry. The Major got her some water at one point as Anderson made her go over everything, which she downed gratefully. By the time she was finished, she felt like she’d been wrung dry and flattened by a steamroller.

            When it was over, Anderson sat back with a sigh. “Self-defence or defence of someone else. We’ve recruited people for worse.”

            “So… what happens now?” Regan asked warily.

            “The Alliance military has a… I guess you could call it ‘cadets programme’ but it’s for non-violent juvenile criminals,” Anderson responded, rubbing the back of his head. “Normally, I wouldn’t think of putting a gangbanger in that programme, but the fact you’ve been honest with us and don’t seem to be trigger-happy compels me to give you a chance.”

            “You’ll be under a two-year suspended sentence with a minimum mandatory enlistment of six years from the age of eighteen,” Major Patel added calmly. “One of our foster carers has agreed to take you on and you will be dealing with a parole officer too.”

            Regan blinked. “So what does this mean?”

            “It means that you have two years to get a high school diploma and prove yourself trustworthy enough to serve in the Alliance,” Anderson immediately replied. “You will be under supervised release into the public. One citation for _littering_ and you will be thrown into the stockade.”

            Given that Regan was expecting a juvenile correctional centre, she was stunned by this news. “You bet your arse I’ll avoid trouble,” she said fervently.

            Patel smiled thinly. “You seem like a smart girl,” he noted.

            “Your foster carer is a former N3 herself – Matilda Shepard,” Anderson continued. “Because you’ve apparently provided enough information to stop the Tenth Street Reds’ activities in red sand and human trafficking, you’re also going under the witness protection programme. That means you’re off to Sydney.”

            Regan pursed her lips, mentally applauding the Captain. Sending her to Sydney would remove her from all her contacts, haunts and any potential trouble. But she remained silent about that.

            “I’ll take it,” she said aloud.

            Now it was Anderson who smiled thinly. “I thought you would.”

           


	2. Waltzing Matilda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for discussion of death and violence involving a minor.

Matilda Shepard was a square-jawed ex-soldier in her mid-sixties who mustered out because of a bullet to the knee but as soon as the lean, grey-haired woman walked into the airport to collect her from Captain Anderson, Regan knew she could kick her arse six ways to Sunday with her pinkie alone.

            “Thank you for taking her on,” Anderson told the ex-Marine after she saluted him.

            “No problems,” Matilda replied with a smile as she glanced at Regan, green eyes keen and compassionate. “If Patel thinks she’s worth the trouble, then it’s the least I could do.”

            Regan saluted the woman and she chuckled quietly. “I’m not your superior officer,” she said.

            “Might as well be,” Regan replied bluntly. She had to start thinking like a proper soldier, not a gangbanger.

            “I see,” Matilda murmured before looking to Anderson. “I read the psychologist’s report.”

            “Then you know what to expect.” Anderson gave Regan a reassuring glance. In the three days since she’d burned all her bridges with the Reds, the Captain had become her advocate for some reason.

            Matilda regarded Regan thoughtfully. “Can you read, write and do maths?”

            “Yeah. I had Edu-Channel at home and Mum did that much with me.”

            “Good, you’re a step up on some of the other kids I’ve fostered.” Matilda smiled and it warmed her scarred face. “Do you want to be homeschooled, go to high school or do TAFE?”

            Regan thought of putting on a uniform and walking into a school full of people her age and shuddered. “TAFE, please,” she said quietly.

            “As you wish.” Matilda nodded to Anderson. “Want to come by for a cuppa or are you going to piss off like you always do?”

            “I have to be Vancouver by sundown,” the Captain groused. “Think of me when eating the banana bread.”

            “I will, trust me.” Matilda saluted and Regan echoed her movement, receiving a friendly nod from Anderson.

            “Keep yourselves out of trouble, both of you,” he said with a brief smile.

            “Yeah, but who’s going to keep _you_ out of trouble?” Matilda asked fondly.

            “Kahlee, of course.” The Captain nodded and with military precision, turned around and walked into the crowd.

            “We served in the same unit,” Matilda explained once he’d left. “Good soldier and a better man, despite what certain people might say.”

            Regan nodded, sensing that the ex-Marine wasn’t going to talk about those ‘certain people’.

            “I’m not going to treat you like a kid,” Matilda said as they walked out of the airport. “I know damned well you’ve killed people as well as hurt them. I can see it in your eyes.”

            “They would have killed me,” Regan pointed out quietly.

            “I know. Gangs are rough – I’m from Western Sydney.” She hailed a cab and it slid into a spare park in the taxi rank. “Since you seem comfortable with military authority, you can consider me a mixture of drill sergeant and counsellor. The first thing I need to do is get you eating right and packing on some muscle – at the moment, you’re too damned thin to get your biotic implants and without them, you won’t be able to Lift a pin.”

            Regan opened another strawberry protein bar and ate it. “I’m always hungry.”

            “Because you’re a biotic. Even when they’re latent like you, they burn up ridiculous amounts of energy.” Matilda chivvied her into the taxi and gave an address to the driver. “I assume you know not to piss on this opportunity.”

            “I was gonna enlist when I was eighteen anyway,” Regan mumbled. “Why would I piss off the person who could see me thrown in the Stockade?”

            “Smart girl.” Matilda leaned back and brought up a file on her omnitool. “So, you’re autistic and malnourished.”

            “…Apparently so.” Regan shrugged. “Never knew why I didn’t get people or why they thought me weird.”

            “Well, it’s a different way of thinking. The psychologists call it ‘neurodivergent’ and while it makes you different, it gives you talents that a neurotypical mightn’t have.” Matilda smiled slightly. “Like your ability to snipe a target from a kilometre away.”

            That made Regan feel better. She didn’t much like being considered weird, though she didn’t mind being different.

            “However, your hand-to-hand skills are shit. I’ll teach you how to do some krav maga – it’s nasty, it’s vicious and it’s an effective combat style.” Matilda looked at Regan pointedly. “It’s meant to disable or kill quickly, Regan. You’ll be a better fighter than any of your old gang… and if I find out you’ve misused what I taught you, I’ll kick your arse from here back to the Brisbane Coast.”

            “Yes, ma’am,” Regan mumbled, cowed by that stern glance.

            “Good.” Matilda settled in her seat with a sigh. “I hope you feel comfortable enough to talk to me, but if not, there’s a social worker who’ll be assigned to you. Thankfully, you’re too damned young and not fitted with implants to be dragged off to Brain Camp. I’ve heard bad things about that place.”

            Regan decided to remain silent. She wasn’t sure what to think of being a biotic but she was relieved she wasn’t going to some secret facility.

            Eventually they arrived at the suburban prefab apartment block where Matilda lived. She paid the cabbie and got out, Regan following her, before she walked to a ground-floor unit.

            Regan looked around curiously. There were actual trees and bushes surrounding the shiny silver-grey building. She picked a leathery grey-green leaf and shredded it, breathing in the strongly astringent scent.

            “Eucalyptus tree – gum tree,” Matilda said as she swiped her keycard to get in. “I love the smell of the leaves.”

            Inside, Matilda’s apartment was spacious, consisting of two bedrooms, a bathroom and a common room (with kitchen) that she’d set up as a mini-gym. The bedroom Regan got had a king single bed with plastic-wrapped sheets folded on its end, a desk and a chair. “I expect you to make your bed every morning military-style,” Matilda ordered briskly. “I’ll show you how to do it until you get it right, but I want to see at least an attempt at it, alright?”

            Regan nodded, overwhelmed by the fact that she was getting her own bedroom.

            “Normally, I’d take you into the kitchen and start teaching you how to cook, but it’s been a long day and I can’t be arsed to cook.” Matilda smiled at Regan. “So, you have a choice of Italian, Chinese or Thai takeaway.”

            “Chinese, please,” Regan promptly replied.

            “Wonderful!” Matilda activated her omnitool and put in an order. “Have a shower before it arrives.”

            “Yes, ma’am.” Regan gathered the new clothing she’d been given – prefab jumpsuit and underwear, nothing fancy – and took herself to the shower. Matilda was brisk and friendly, not trying to be a maternal figure to Regan but also not treating her like shit. She could cope with that.

            Cleaned and dressed, she came into the common room and said, “Thanks for giving me a chance, ma’am.”

            Matilda looked up from where she was setting the drop-leaf table and smiled. “You’re welcome. Someone once gave me a similar chance a long time ago and so I wound up here. Figure I like to pay it forward.”

            That… actually made sense. Regan felt a little knot of tension ease in the back of her neck as she sat down at the table, watching the ex-Marine’s capable tan hands putting everything in their place.

            “I won’t disappoint you. Or the Alliance,” she promised softly.

            Matilda looked up and smiled once again. “I know,” she said and for the first time, Regan believed in herself.

…

Anderson applauded as the class of 2171 rose to accept the accolades of the audience, having graduated from Sydney TAFE with their Diplomas. Regan Shepard (she’d taken Matilda’s surname) was amongst them with her Adult Tertiary Preparation Certificate and a Certificate III in Electronics. For the next year she would work on a Diploma of Electrical Engineering so she could enlist as a fully-fledged Infiltrator-class candidate.

            Still scrawny and brassy-haired, Regan had still put on more weight and actually looked her age of seventeen instead of thirteen. She was now fitted with biotic implants but childhood malnutrition meant that she would never be more powerful than the strongest L1s, though she certainly possessed precision with her mass effect fields.

            “How is she doing?” Anderson asked under the cover of the crowd’s cheering as the students left the stage, line by line to avoid a stampede.

            “She’s smart and doesn’t know the meaning of quitting,” Matilda answered quietly. “She’s lousy at krav maga so I wound up teaching her some boxing techniques instead.”

            “That explains the Boxing Kangaroo stuffed toy you’re giving her,” Anderson observed with some amusement.

            “Yeah.” Matilda smirked. “Poor kid won’t accept gifts unless she’s earned them.”

            “Has she been in any trouble?”

            “She _did_ flatten a drunk who catcalled her but that’s about it.” His old combat instructor sighed as Anderson raised an eyebrow. She was supposed to have reported that. “For gods’ sakes, he was about seventy, Anderson, and she beat me to it.”

            “Does she have a temper?” he asked cautiously.

            “Doesn’t everyone? Hers tends to simmer until it erupts, but I’ve only seen her lose it once at a video game.”

            Anderson nodded as Regan arrived. She saluted them crisply, her bright blue eyes shining with pride.

            “Good job, Cadet,” he told her.

            “Thanks, sir.” Regan smiled broadly, a far cry from the sullen girl of a year ago, and the expression got broader as she was handed the kangaroo.

            “Skippy!” she announced and Anderson found himself chuckling. “Thanks, Mat- ma’am.”

            “You can call me Matilda. It’s a day off.” There was a bit of sadness in Matilda’s voice though and Anderson made a mental note to chase it up.

            “Yes, Matilda.” Regan hugged the kangaroo toy and Anderson felt a bit of a pang. This was the closest she’d ever get to a childhood.

            He chased away the feeling. Regan was already skilled in violence and its ways; his job was to point that in a beneficial direction. “Since you’ve got your high school diploma, you now qualify as a Cadet and will receive the appropriate stipend. In return, you’re on call for emergency operations and training at Enoggera Barracks once a month,” he announced.

            “Wait, you’re paying me, sir?” Regan’s eyes went round as a full moon.

            “You’re a Cadet. You just happen to be one with a year’s suspended sentence left,” Anderson reminded her.

            “You’ll have to pay board now,” Matilda added quietly. “The cost of rent is supposed to be about 30%, so that’s what you’ll be paying.”

            Regan nodded and Anderson flashed the woman a _look_. She was compensated for taking on Regan and charging board wasn’t supposed to happen. Unless Regan was eating like two horses and breaking things.

            “Go grab yourself a drink and please get us a couple two,” Anderson said, handing her a credit chit. The girl took the hint and vanished, kangaroo still tucked under her arm.

            “Regan trusts nothing that’s given for free,” Matilda said once she was gone. “I intend to save up the cash and buy her a decent sniper rifle and body armour when she enlists.”

            He ah’ed in understanding. “How long until you think she’ll be Special Forces?”

            “Ten years unless something big happens,” was the woman’s prompt reply. “Patel was right to bring you into it. I…”

            She paused and looked at him, falling silent, and Anderson sighed in frustration. “You what?”

            “I think she’ll pick up where you left off with the Council and succeed,” Matilda finally said quietly. “As a soldier, Regan’s… competent. Not brilliant, but decent. But when she’s backed into a corner and making her own rules of engagement, she’s a fucking genius.”

            “Have you told her that?”

            “No.” Matilda’s face was sombre. “It’s something she’ll need to learn for herself.”

            Anderson’s lips pursed. “The brass has its own candidates for Spectre status.”

            “I’m sure they’re good ones. I never said that Regan would be the first, only that one day, she’ll be serving as one.” Matilda flashed him a grin. “Or I’ll eat my combat boots with spicy sauce.”

            Anderson echoed her grin as Regan came back with soft drinks. “I’d pay to see that.”

            “Pay to see what, sir?” Regan asked as she handed over the drinks.

            “Pay to see Waltzing Matilda eat combat boots with spicy sauce,” Anderson informed the Cadet.

            “Come back to our place and eat my chilli beef, sir. It’d be much the same experience.”

            Anderson found himself startled into laughter. Patel had been right – there was a good kid beneath the gangbanger and she’d begun to emerge after only a year.

            “Well, seeing as I couldn’t inflict that on myself, I’m buying dinner tonight,” he announced, feeling an odd sense of paternal affection for the girl. “Anything you want?”

            “Chinese,” Regan and Matilda said in unison and Anderson laughed again. The two were more alike than they realised.

            “Let’s go,” he said, somehow certain that Matilda was right about Shepard.

…

The BDUs felt comfortable, a prefab mix of synthetic cotton and linen that was better than most of the clothing she’d worn in her life. Regan stared at her reflection in the mirror, ruffling her newly trimmed chin-length hair, and almost felt like a soldier.

            Matilda had saved up all her board and arranged for her to have the best that could be arranged. Solaris Amp Mk. 1, Bluewire Tool omnitool, a Naginata sniper rifle and a set of light Mantis body armour meant that Regan would go in better armed and armoured than most recruits.

            “Can I punch someone who makes fun of Skippy?” she asked as Matilda’s worn face appeared in the mirror behind her.

            “Only if you want to end up in the brig,” Matilda answered with some amusement. “You’re looking the part. Now act it and don’t embarrass me.”

            Regan turned around to face the woman who was probably the closest thing to a maternal figure she’d ever had. “I won’t,” she promised.

            “I know.” Matilda smiled. “You were born to be a soldier, Regan.”

            “Only because Anderson found me and you taught me,” Regan replied softly and sincerely.

            “Maybe, Regan, maybe.” Matilda nodded to the duffel bag containing her stuff. “You’d better get going or you’ll miss the flight to Brisbane Coast.”

            Regan surprised the pair of them by hugging her. Then she dared to ask the question that had been bothering her since graduation. “Why did Anderson call you ‘Waltzing Matilda’?”

            “You mean aside from my name?” Matilda snickered. “Because I used to ‘waltz in and take everything over’. I used to be his commanding officer, you know.”

            “Good God,” Regan breathed. She never would have guessed.

            Then she saluted Matilda for the last time. “Thanks for everything, ma’am.”

            “Goodbye and good luck, Private Shepard.” Matilda saluted her and then it was time to leave, once and for all.


	3. Walk Softly and Carry A Big Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for violence and discussions of death.

Enoggera Barracks, just outside of Brisbane Coast’s CBD, was practically a second home to Regan. As she climbed off the troop transport and saw Gupta Patel waiting for them, a grin unbefitting a Private (Third Class) of the Commonwealth Alliance Forces split her face. The Major’s expression softened slightly, mostly a deepening crease around his dark eyes, but still he remained stern.

            She listened to the welcome speech she’d heard a dozen times since starting her training here, the words given new meaning by the fact that when she was done with boot camp, she would pick up the sword and the rifle to take her oath. Patel was hard but fair, happy to show anyone with drive how to do new things and endlessly patient with recruits who were genuinely trying. Slackers, timewasters and those who pissed around got short shrift and a boot up the backside out of the barracks.

            Once dismissed to find lockers and beds, the other soldiers scattered as Patel approached her, expression neutral. “So you’ve finally enlisted formally,” he noted.

            “Yes, Major,” she responded with a salute.

            Patel smiled slightly. “I want to ask some questions about your plans after boot camp.”

            Regan’s eyebrow arched. “Figured I’d be sent to wherever grunts are needed, sir.”

            Patel brought up some files on his omnitool. The Major was a soldier but in the Alliance, every officer had an omnitool. “You scored high on your aptitude tests, Shepard. If you’d be willing to dedicate four years at Duntroon and get a university, you could graduate as a Lieutenant instead of a Corporal.”

            Regan’s lips pursed. That would extent the mandatory period of enlistment to ten years, as Anderson had calculated it to begin when she finished boot camp. “Why?” she asked as bluntly as she dared of the man who would control her life for the next six months.

            “Better pay grade, a certain amount of freedom to plan a battle as you choose and the fact that you are the highest-scoring leadership candidate on the aptitude test.” Patel dismissed the file and regarded her sombrely. “You have six months to decide but once you’re in the ranks, the only way you’ll be able to go for officer is either getting into the ICA or a field commission – or a break between tours of duty to study.”

            _More responsibility and if shit goes wrong, you’re blamed,_ her brain pointed out. Regan doubted she was N-School material but during Cadet training, she wound up taking charge most of the time because she saw what needed to be done and just did it instead of pissing around waiting for someone else to do so.

            “I’ll do it,” she answered.

            Patel smiled, this time looking a bit smug (did he have a bet riding on it with someone?), and nodded. “Good. You just need to get through boot camp first.”

            Regan snorted. “Sir, I’ve been training for this for the past two years. Think I’m good to go.”

            “Oh, wonderful. I need someone to show the recruits how it’s done.”

            “I can handle anything you throw at me, sir.”

…

“Kill me.”

            Regan rolled onto her cot as two members of her squad, Tay Duke and Helen ‘Hotshot’ Houlihan, entered. They were all exhausted and aching thanks to Patel taking her confidence as a ‘Challenge accepted’ and putting them through literal hell.

            “Gladly, once I’ve picked the shrapnel from my ass,” Houlihan replied. “What crawled up the Major’s arse and died?”

            “Me,” Regan admitted with a groan. They’d all showered and changed as was appropriate but she still wanted to die. “Kiddies, never ever tell Patel that you can take anything he throws at you just because you were a Cadet. Just don’t.”

            “Fuck you, Shepard,” Duke groused.

            “Thanks for the offer, but fraternisation is frowned upon.” Regan rolled off her cot and rose to her feet as she heard the familiar footsteps of Patel’s combat boots heading in their direction.

            “Still standing?” The Major sounded a little surprised.

            “You didn’t give us permission to die, sir,” Regan answered, saluting him.

            “I’m so glad you’re going to be Duntroon’s problem in three months,” Patel answered dryly. “Your squad’s earned some leave so long as you’re back and ready for another day of training your arses off by 06:00 tomorrow.”

            _Praise the fickle gods above,_ Regan thought as she nodded and the faces of Duke and Hotshot brightened.

            Patel nodded and left. He knew better than to tell her squad to behave.

            “So, you’re from the Brisbane Coast,” the Cairns-born Duke said cheerfully. “Know anywhere good we can drink?”

            “I’m from the south end but I hear Mick O’Malley’s is good,” Regan replied. Funny how a chance to get off base and have a drink perked her up. “Tell the squad to get ready, we’re getting moderately tipsy.”

            “’Moderately tipsy’?” Duke sounded disappointed. Then again, up in Cairns, drinking was a sport because there was fuck-all else to do.

            “Training tomorrow. If I get shit for you sucking at whatever delightful entertainment the Major’s got planned for us, I’ll kick your arse and make you scrub the loos with a toothbrush.”

            “ _His_ toothbrush, I hope.” Hotshot had as dry a sense of humour as Regan.

            “I was thinking the Major’s,” Duke muttered, showing more guts than was wise.

            Within the hour they were in civvies and on the airbus to the northern CBD. Using her omnitool, Regan found Mick O’Malley’s, which was packed full of uni students from QUT, and belting out Irish punk rock songs. In short, it was her kind of place.

            Regan commanded a five-person squad: in addition to Duke and Hotshot, she had Leila bint Mohammed al-Sahrawi, who came along for the company because as a Muslim woman she couldn’t drink, and Faramir Smith, a calm, scholarly man who could drop a bull with a single punch. With a name like his, he’d need to be.

            “Alright, don’t embarrass me – I mean, don’t embarrass the Alliance,” Regan informed the grinning group. “One drink an hour and no more than five. Leila, if we do get a bit tipsy, you’re in charge of getting us home.”

            The sturdy Western Saharan woman nodded and Regan smiled at her. “Tell ‘em you’re the designated driver and that will get you free soft drinks all night.”

            “I can do that,” Leila, who was one of those disgustingly cheerful morning people, agreed.

            Inside, Mick O’Malley’s was as faux Irish as you could get, complete with emerald-green shamrocks and a leprechaun statue. But it was relatively clean and despite being loud, there was no undercurrent of trouble that Regan could sense, so she walked and played dodge the uni student to get to the bar while the others went for seats. “Four Fourex beers and a Coke, thanks,” she said to the harried bartender once she was served.

            “Yeah, sure, that’ll be 40 credits,” the man replied.

            Regan winced and handed over the credit chit to be scanned. Next round was Duke’s or Faramir’s round.

            Juggling the beers and soft drink, she did the dodging grabby hands dance pretty well… until she tripped over someone’s outstretched foot. The nearest patron, some dark-haired muscular sports type, wore four very expensive home-grown beers and a Coke. As he turned, Regan began an apology that died on her lips as she realised that despite being older, it was fucking Finch from the Tenth Street Reds.

            “Don’t fucking try nothing,” she advised as realisation dawned on that passingly handsome face.

            “Serving drinks in a bar, Regan?” Finch hissed scornfully.

            “Actually, running drinks to my squad over there,” Regan responded, slanting her chin to the group of buzz-cut (but for Leila, who wore an Alliance-blue hijab) individuals nearby. “Now you can walk away and I’ll pretend I never saw you despite you being a scumbag baby-seller. Or I can plant you on your arse here and now, spend a couple weeks confined to barracks, and see you in Wacol for gang-related activities.”

            “Do you know how much it fucking cost me to make it up to Cerberus?” he hissed furiously.

            “I don’t fucking care, Finch. You’re what – twenty now? You could be in the military doing something with the skills the Reds taught us, but I wager you’re still trying to stay on top of the shit heap back in High Street.” Regan stared down her first commander with an icy glare she’d learned from Matilda.

            Finch sneered. “You’ve gone jarhead, Regan. I wonder what your squad would say if they knew you were a-“

            “Gangbanger?” Regan interrupted loudly. “Jesus, you been snorting red sand, old boy? Everyone fucking knows I chose military service in lieu of prison time, you daft bastard, and I don’t regret it one fucking bit.”

            She jabbed Finch’s chest, forcing him to step back. “Go back to Southport. Maybe you’ll make it to thirty. Or maybe not. I don’t give a shit because that life’s behind me for a better one.”

            Finch glared at her but wisely chose caution as the better part of valour. He took himself off, reeking of beer and worse, as Hotshot came up to see what was wrong.

            “I swear, once I’m done with Duntroon I’m getting the fuck outta here,” Regan vowed softly. “This place is too fucking small.”

…

A shot ricocheted over Regan’s head and she swore vividly. Crawling under barbed wire with live fire going on wasn’t a pleasant thing to do with a hangover, but she had to get her squad across the course _and_ beat the visiting Kiwi team led by Ngaire Parata or sing the New Zealand national anthem in their underwear at the mess hall. Damn her for running into Finch last night and damn her for making a bet with Parata today.

            “Now probably isn’t the time to ask, but what exactly did you do in the gangs?” Hotshot suddenly asked behind her. “I thought the Cadet programme was for non-violent criminals.”

            “It is, but they made an exception for me because I blew the lid open on some really nasty drug and human trafficking operations,” Regan answered, not looking over her shoulder. Hotshot had lousy timing but Regan owed her the answer. “Before that, I did security – mostly hung out in a high spot with a sniper rifle watching for rival gangs.”

            “And you let that guy walk?” Hotshot’s voice was disbelieving.

            “Because until I graduate from boot camp, I’m on a suspended sentence,” Regan replied. “Finch doesn’t know that, so I was able to bullshit him into leaving. I’m not a cop, Hotshot.”

            Another bullet fired and Regan cursed, crawling through the mud. “Before you ask, yes I’ve hurt people, and I killed someone once. I turned against the Reds when they were selling little kids to Cerberus – I’ve heard that group does some fucked up shit – and because I shot two people, I was charged with two counts of attempted murder. Didn’t matter they were dragging toddlers and babies out to Cerberus.”

            They passed a checkpoint and Regan tapped the light that blinked to tell the commanders watching they’d reached it. “I’m good at shooting people, Hotshot, and the Alliance saw that. I’d always planned to enlist because I was never registered for a CIN until I was arrested.”

            Houlihan, who came from one of those comfortably middle-class military families, remained silent until the rest of the squad cleared the checkpoint. She couldn’t understand either the choices that drove Regan to become a teenage sniper or the pragmatism of the Alliance in recruiting such a person.

            “I thought you’d done some hacking stuff or shoplifting, not killed someone,” she finally said. “Guess I thought better of you than you really were.”

            It hurt to be dismissed so easily by someone who never did it tough. But Regan refused to let it show. “Well, until we’re done with boot camp, you’re in my squad – so suck it up and deal with it, sunshine.”

            Then she put her nose to the mud and crawled at a blistering place, trying to catch up on the time lost talking to Hotshot. She, and Hotshot, and everyone else here were learning how to kill people yet the Private had an issue with Regan being gang security before her enlistment.

            God above but Regan couldn’t understand that sort of hypocrisy. Not one bit.

…

Watching Shepard sing the New Zealand national underwear in a crop top and boyleg underpants was certainly enlightening, David Anderson thought with a wry smile. Though the scrawny brassy-haired woman didn’t realise it, she and Ngaire Parata were neck and neck for the Alliance’s shortlist of next-generation Spectre candidates to quietly nurture and promote to the Council. Only one could come from the Commonwealth Oceania nations and if Anderson had his way, it would be the Australian, not the impressive Maori Corporal. Ngaire had her own skills and talents, but she was essentially an arms master and drill sergeant, where Regan was officer material. Parata was more along the lines of Gupta Patel instead of… well… someone like Anderson himself.

            He wasn’t pleased she’d run into her old gang, though the fact she scared Finch into leaving the Brisbane Coast entirely was something to take note of. Getting into an argument with one of her squadmates was bad form and a mark against her, even if she rallied the squad to almost beat the New Zealanders. But Anderson reminded himself that for all her combat experience, Regan was eighteen and wouldn’t be seeing actual combat until twenty-two at least because she’d wisely elected to go to Duntroon and pursue a university education to become an officer.

            “What’s Regan going to be doing at Duntroon again?” he asked Patel softly.

            “A three-year Bachelor of Intergalactic Relations,” he replied with amusement deepening the creases around his dark eyes.

            Anderson’s eyebrow shot up. Regan, when they’d picked her up off the streets, had been one of the most casually racist people he knew.

            “I don’t tolerate racism in my barracks,” Patel continued calmly. “Most of it was ignorance on Regan’s part, not malice, and she elected to study krogan as her alien language for her high school diploma.”

            “…Krogan.” Anderson didn’t bother to hide his disbelief.

            Patel almost smiled. “Apparently she’s prone to headbutting in hand-to-hand combat according to Matilda. It seemed… appropriate.”

            “I swear, if she actually headbutts a krogan, I hope she’s wearing a helmet,” Anderson muttered.

            Still, he was impressed that she was going to make an effort to learn about Council races. Did she have some idea of what was afoot? If so, Regan was playing her cards close to her chest.

            Kangaroo Squad was permitted to pull on their BDUs once the anthem was done, much to the hilarity of Kiwi Squad. Anderson, born in London, didn’t quite get the Antipodean rivalry – but then, the squads had joined together to rib the King Squad from Britain and knock them (and Lieutenant John Coates) out of the competition. Good old Commonwealth rivalry.

            He watched the latest batch of soldiers, all of whom would graduate in six weeks, with a sense of pride and sorrow. Within a decade, at least one out of four would be dead and another wounded to the point of honourable discharge. Regan Shepard and Ngaire Parata could be in those who simply didn’t have the luck to escape that stray bullet or batarian bomb.

            “How do you stand it?” he asked Patel, who trained these kids to go out and kill or be killed.

            “If not them, then someone else,” was the grim answer. “Most of these young people would go out into the colonies and possibly die or be enslaved if they weren’t in the military. At least we give them a fighting chance so that civilians don’t have to kill or be killed.”

            It wasn’t the sort of answer Anderson was hoping for but he didn’t say anything because Patel was right. If they hadn’t found Regan, she’d be dead or a hardened criminal by now instead of a potential Spectre candidate.

            In a galaxy dominated by the Council races, humanity had to walk softly and carry a big gun. Shepard already had the big gun – he just hoped she had the soft steps to carry her through.

           


	4. Like the Deserts Miss the Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Implied smut. Trigger warning for mentions of death and violence. Yes, the title comes from Everything But the Girl’s ‘Missing’. My head-canon Kaidan is a Vanguard with Sentinel abilities just as Regan is an Infiltrator with minor biotic abilities.

Kaidan Alenko had gone and done it. Enlisted into the Navy just like his father four years after the disaster at Brain Camp. Biotics got excellent signing bonuses and having just finished a Bachelor of Engineering, he was going straight into officer training, which made the enlisted man Preston Alenko happier than a pig in mud. Still in Toronto until tomorrow because he’d booked a motel room and the next flight to Vancouver left at 8AM, Kaidan made his way to an Irish pub popular with off-duty Marines so he could ask some questions on what to expect.

            It wasn’t hard to miss the soldiers – most of them wore the navy-blue BDUs or Alliance t-shirts – but Kaidan found himself staring at a slender woman with reddish-blonde hair who glowed a brilliant sky-blue as she peeled off the tops of three beer bottles biotically. Three mass effect fields at one time, handled with finesse that made the L2 raw with envy – no wonder she wore the darker blue t-shirt of an officer. Much to his surprise, once he saw past the light of the biotics, he noticed that she was about his age.

            _Maybe she’s from that new Academy they’re making noises about,_ he thought wistfully as he watched the Marines joke and poke a lithe, black-haired member of their group who wore the black, red and white of an ICA recruit. He’d made some peace with what happened at Jump Zero but the scars would linger for a long time yet.

            One of the bottles floated towards the ICA recruit and he nudged it away. “I don’t drink,” he said sourly to the female biotic Lifted the bottle.

            “Fair enough, Kai,” she replied, sounding slightly offended. Then eyes blue as her biotic field swept the room and alighted on Kaidan, who realised he was still carrying the standard-issue duffel bag given to everyone on enlistment. “Carn take a seat and have a beer, rookie.”

            “Aren’t you still in officer training, Shepard?” Kai asked dryly.

            “Yeah, and in two years I’m gonna be a Lieutenant while you’re still wondering why you haven’t been promoted for all your N-School glory,” Shepard retorted in her broad Australian accent.

            Kaidan approached them, wiping his sweaty palms on the back of his jeans. “Yes, ma’am, I mean, thanks ma’am,” he babbled.

            _Smooth, Alenko, show you’re confident and collected,_ his inner monologue observed sarcastically.

            “Just Regan – or Corporal Shepard if you gotta be formal,” she answered as she floated the beer in his direction. Feeling the urge to show off, he activated his own biotics – a darker blue than Regan’s – and caught the beer in mid-air.

            “Nice catch,” Regan said approvingly. “L3?”

            “L2,” Kaidan admitted. “I, uh, just get migraines.”

            Shepard nodded sympathetically as she patted the seat next to her. “I missed the L2 implants and Brain Camp by a year,” she said quietly. “Thank fuck for that.”

            “You have no idea,” Kaidan told her fervently as he sat down. “No idea at all.”

            “What’s wrong?” Kai asked with a hint of cruelty in his voice. “Didn’t get to call Mommy every day?”

            Kaidan clenched his fists, instinctively knowing that if he punched this asshole, then he’d be on the ground with multiple broken bones. Shepard placed a hand on his shoulder warningly, the buzz of her biotics vibrating pleasantly through his body and distracting him from his anger.

            “Pick on someone your own size, Leng,” she said flatly.

            “I tried, but you won’t dance, Shepard,” he retorted with a smirk.

            “Unlike _some_ , I got nothing to prove,” was Regan’s cool response.

            “Ah yes, the great Corporal Shepard, protector of pretty boys who’ve never killed a man in their lives and think they’re worthy to be Marines.” Kai’s voice was scornful as he regarded the pair.

            “I’ve killed someone,” Kaidan admitted softly, the words torn from his throat. “I’m the reason they shut down Brain Camp.”

            The soldiers’ eyes immediately swung in his direction, a powerfully muscled woman with dark olive skin tugging the beer from Kaidan’s still-active field and putting it on the table. “Have a drink and tell us,” she said in a New Zealand accent with a hint of sympathy. “Most of us come from… rough backgrounds.”

            Kaidan picked up the beer and let his biotics shut down, impressed by the strength it would have taken to pull it from a mass effect field. Drinking the cool amber liquid, he let it soothe his throat before responding. “There was this turian guy, Vyrnnus,” he confessed softly. “Brutal as hell. Denied us rations, biotically threw objects at us… One day, he broke a-a friend’s arm as she reached for a glass of water with her hand instead of her biotics. She was just thirsty, you know?”

            The New Zealander and Regan exchanged troubled looks. “That’s pretty bad, though I’ve seen worse,” the latter observed neutrally.

            Kai simply sniffed derisively. “Liked her, did you?”

            Kaidan found the guts to stare him in the eyes and go, “Yeah, I did. And when that turian broke her arm, I Charged him.”

            “You took out a turian merc with a Charge?” the New Zealander asked, sounding impressed.

            “No. He challenged me to a biotic duel and then pulled a knife and cut me when I chose to maintain a Barrier,” Kaidan answered softly. “I Charged him again… and then jump-kicked his head, breaking his neck.”

            His mind flashed back to Rahna flinching away from him when he tried to say farewell and the horror he felt on seeing the dead turian. His father had given him a beer and told him that new opportunities would come, bigger ones than Brain Camp; these Marines looked at him soberly, respect and sympathy in their eyes. Kaidan suspected that a couple of them might have killed someone in anger – or seen it happen.

            Kai’s mouth twisted but he said nothing derisive. Instead he raised his glass of water and saluted Kaidan almost mockingly. “Well, perhaps you’re in the right place then, boy,” the Chinese Marine observed dryly.

            “S’pose I owe you one for saving me from Brain Camp,” Regan said fervently. “If I’d been there – I’d’ve stolen a rifle and sniped the bastard.”

            “Only because you’re lousy at hand-to-hand combat,” Kai pointed out lazily with another smirk. “Remind me again why you’re the golden child of Duntroon?”

            “Because _she_ dumped mystery meat over _you_ in the mess hall,” the New Zealander retorted. She looked to Kaidan and smiled. “I’m Lieutenant Ngaire Parata, the asshole in the corner’s Service Chief Kai Leng and you’ve met Corporal Regan Shepard.”

            “Kaidan Alenko,” the biotic answered with a salute.

            “At ease, soldier.” Ngaire looked more amused than anything else. “When do you go to boot camp?”

            “Six weeks from now, ma’am.” Just enough time to go home, scrap together the money for a decent gun and some body armour and prepare for becoming a soldier. Maybe.

            “You got a weapon?” Regan asked quietly.

            “Umm, not yet. They’re not sure if I’m going to be a Vanguard or a Sentinel because I studied engineering.” There was something about Regan that was slowly relaxing him – and it wasn’t just the beer. Ngaire was treating him like a kid and Kai seemed contemptuous of everyone but Regan… Regan was treating him as an equal. Something in her eyes told him she’d been to some pretty rough places in her life.

            Regan pursed her lips. “Assault rifle and heavy pistol then,” she said thoughtfully. “When are you shipping out?”

            “Tomorrow, 8AM- Err, 08:00 hours,” he answered.

            She smiled briefly. “I got an assault rifle that’s too heavy for me – I use pistol, shotgun and sniper rifle as an Infiltrator-class – that might do you some good. It ain’t fantastic, but it’s a solid weapon.”

            Kaidan stared at her. “Why?” he asked.

            “Because once a couple Alliance soldiers gave a gangbanger facing charges of attempted murder a chance,” Regan said gently. “I believe in paying it forward.”

            “I… Thanks.” Kaidan swallowed thickly, almost moved to tears. “I’ll give you my motel address, so you can drop it off.”

            “Sure.” Regan smiled at him and Kaidan blushed. She wasn’t pretty, not with those broad, blunt features and ivory teeth that were chipped… but she was gorgeous nevertheless.

            “It’s not fraternisation until he goes to boot camp,” Ngaire teased. “Hey Shep, think we should give Kaidan a welcome to the corps he’ll never forget?”

            Kai snorted contemptuously as he stood up. “Try not to forget we have exercises in the morning,” he said curtly before leaving.

            Regan gave him the finger behind his back. “Don’t know what his malfunction is, but he’s been treating me like shit since I got here.”

            “It’s simple, Regan. You beat him at something,” Ngaire answered firmly. “Until we showed up, Kai held first place in hand-to-hand _and_ sniping. Now he’s only first place in melee combat.”

            Kaidan eyed Ngaire’s bare forearms. “Let me guess, you beat him in the hand-to-hand.”

            The New Zealander nodded with a grin. “I happen to hold the title for the Alliance Division of the World MMA Championship,” she told him.

            “I hear there’s some grunt named Vega who’s out to get the title,” Regan teased. “Apparently he’s muscle on muscle.”

            Ngaire nonchalantly curled the pecs on her right arm. “Sounds like the sort of guy I want to date.”

            “Shame it’s fraternisation now,” Regan said with a grin.

            “Dammit!” Ngaire sighed dramatically. “Still, if Kaidan’s interested, he’s not at boot camp yet…”

            Kaidan coughed awkwardly. “I, uh, should probably head back to the motel. I have to head back to Vancouver in the morning.”

            Regan nodded and brought up her omnitool. “What’s your motel address? I’ll get that assault rifle to you before you go.”

            Kaidan gave his address. He was still stunned by the kindness she was showing him; with an assault rifle, he could use his savings to buy a heavy pistol. “I… Thanks. Really.”

            The Australian smiled at him and he clenched his fist at the sudden surge of arousal. Ngaire was stunning with the sort of brash confidence that attracted Kaidan – but he only had eyes for Regan.

            “Why don’t you two just go off?” Ngaire suggested dryly. “I can tell where I’m not wanted.”

            Much to Kaidan’s pleasure Regan blushed. But then she shook her head. “Because I’m gonna have to courier that rifle to him if I want to get back to base in time for some sleep. Kai’s asking to get his arse kicked tomorrow.”

            “That’s a cause worth going to bed early for,” Ngaire agreed. “Nice to meet you, Kaidan. Who’s like us?”

            “Damn few. And they’re all dead.” Kaidan saluted as he said it. “My father’s a Marine.”

            “Thought so,” Ngaire said in satisfaction. “You carry yourself like one. Good luck, Alenko.”

            “Thank you.” He smiled at the New Zealander before looking at Regan. “And… thank you, Shepard.”

            “Don’t thank me until you get the rifle,” she said huskily. “You might think it’s shit.”

            “I doubt that very much,” Kaidan whispered before setting down what was left of his beer and standing to leave. “I hope I see you again soon.”

…

“Shepard.”

            The raspy velvet-on-gravel tones of Kaidan Alenko sent a shiver down Regan’s spine. The newly enlisted biotic had driven what little ability in flirting she possessed out of her mind when she saw him a few weeks ago. She’d sent him the assault rifle by courier because if she saw him again, alone, they would have both missed their transport.

            He was close enough for his biotics to buzz against hers. She stepped back blindly and hit a solid wall of muscle – Kaidan worked out, she’d noticed when she saw him wearing a tight t-shirt – and his arms wrapped around her. He was happy to see her, judging by the bulge in his jeans digging against the small of her back.

            “Kaidan…” she whispered, looking up into warm brown eyes.

            “I go to boot camp day after tomorrow,” he rasped. “It isn’t fraternisation until then.”

            They left the Irish pub and returned to the cheap motel where he’d stayed last time. Tonight there was no Kai to belittle or Ngaire to tease, so they were able to get down to business. Skin against skin, biotics shining in a sea-sky glow that they felt down to the bones, back braced against the wall as Kaidan took her to the brink again and again. Despite his nervousness as a soldier, there was no hesitation or blushing here, only the language of lips and hands and the desperate need for more.

            She clawed his back as he left a very prominent love-bite on the side of her neck. There was no understanding this urge that brought them together, only that it was likely to be their one and only time, a hint of desperation and regret under the lovemaking.

            Then they went to the bed and continued until the grey light of dawn filtered through the bent venetians. A quick shower, a quicker farewell and they parted ways.

            It would be a full ten years before they met again and both would be irrevocably changed.


	5. If They're In Range, So Are You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for death, violence and fantastic racism.

2nd Lieutenant Regan Shepard was supposed to be on leave. She’d come to Elysium because it was cheap and close to the ship she’d been assigned to, the SSV _Kokoda_ , and they brewed a damned good beer. Despite her extensive training and previous experience, she was very much a rookie when it came to commanding in battle, and so she’d planned to do one of those short courses the Grissom Academy offered in short-term battlefield tactics while enjoying a cold beer and not having to wake up in a sleeping pod.

            The batarians weren’t supposed to be this deep in the Skyllian Verge.

            Regan had long since learned that ‘supposed to’ meant jack-fucking-shit out here.

            The garrison was pinned down by a batarian dreadnought, which left the little holiday town of Curved Valley full of helpless tourists who could be enslaved or ransomed depending on level of wealth. There was a small hunting industry here, so there was a sporting goods store that sold sniper rifles; Regan kicked down the door, overloaded the security system and grabbed the best rifle in the place with all the thermal clips she could grab.

            “This is 2nd Lieutenant Regan Shepard calling the SSV _Kokoda_ ,” she signalled over the military line. “Do you read me?”

            Static.

            “Motherfucker,” she muttered as she looked for an appropriate vantage point. Looked like she’d have to buy time for the cavalry to arrive.

            She found a small comms tower and perched beneath the railing, pointing the sniper rifle at the four-eyed batarian coming in. Big bastard in heavy armour – probably soldier-class. Too bad for him he forgot his helmet.

            One shot and he was dead. The other batarians immediately began searching for the sniper they knew was there – they moved like professionals – and their caution gave Regan enough time to aim and fire again, taking out the guy with the biggest gun.

            So began a hellish twelve-hour siege that had Regan being chased around Curved Valley by slavers intent on killing the military unit they were sure were hiding here. Apparently it was part of batarian military doctrine to make tempting targets, stuff them full of troops, and kill the suckers who came to loot the place.

            Humanity’s military doctrine relied on hitting hard and fast. Regan used her biotics to pull up grenades and thermal clips from the dead batarians and when she got her hands on a grenade launcher…

            “-Lieutenant Shepard, this is… Anton Dupree… SSV _Kokoda_. Do you copy?”

            The crackling signal over her omnitool was a gift from hitherto-uncaring gods. Regan ducked behind a bit of broken masonry and activated her earpiece. “This is Shepard. Bastards are in Curved Valley and I’m pinned down. Please tell me you have an ETA, over?”

            “Six hours. We’re fighting three slave cruisers…”

            “For fuck’s sake…” Regan muttered. “Copy that. I’ve lasted for twelve, what’s another six? Shepard out.”

            She grabbed the grenade launcher and lobbed a cryo-grenade over the wall to freeze the grenadier the batarians had brought. Then she grabbed the sniper rifle and finished him off.

            Soon the bastards figured out there was one of her and surrounded the position she’d taken, preventing Regan from falling back. Exhausted and starving, she drank the last of her water, ate the last protein bar and counted the remaining ammo and grenades she had left.

            Regan could hold out for about an hour more at the rate of current fire exchange… or she could go all out, pull a big damn heroes moment, and probably wind up dead within ten minutes.

            _Looks like I’m gonna be in the one out of four who die…_ Regan thought wryly as she loaded her grenade launcher again. She’d soften the bastards with a rain of grenades, pepper them with what was left of her sniper ammo, and then go out with nothing but her shotgun and light pistol.

            Thirty batarians out of a squad of two hundred remained. Regan had done a hell of a lot of damage.

            “Human!” One of the slavers suddenly spoke. “Your Alliance soldiers are dead. The SSV _Kokoda_ has been shot down in flames. Put a bullet in your head and die with dignity.”

            _They don’t know I’ve been in contact with the_ Kokoda _,_ she thought gleefully and decided to buy herself a bit more time – and lower their defences – by playing wounded gazelle.

            “I’m hurt bad,” she called out weakly. “You guys did a good number on me with that grenade.”

            “You’ve accounted for yourself well, I’ll grant you that,” the batarian agreed. “I will let you die with dignity instead of becoming a slave.”

            He looked over his shoulder at the batarians. “We’ll advance once we hear a shot.”

            Regan picked up her pistol and fired it into her right thigh to produce that meaty bullet to the brain sound. Then she tied what was left of her t-shirt around her thigh to stop the bleeding just in case of some fucking miracle she survived this and waited until the batarians were just below her.

            _Fire in the hole, motherfuckers,_ she thought as she triggered her five remaining grenades and threw them over the wall.

            They went off, producing the sound of screams and torn flesh, and Regan rose to her knees despite the agony and fired off her last three sniper thermal clips. Then she fell back to her shotgun as the remnants emerged from the bloody mess she’d created.

            Five remained as they ran the gauntlet of the narrow corridor up to the wall she hid behind, so Regan took down three with her shotgun before running out of ammo and throwing it aside. Last was her pistol and the two batarians who crowded into the walkway were armed and only lightly wounded.

            One of them was the speaker. “I didn’t think a human could use batarian military doctrine,” he said as they stared at each other with guns raised. “You should have killed yourself. Now I have to take you alive as an example for the Hegemony. Your death will be long and painful. But know that I, Balak, salute you.”

            Regan smiled grimly and shot his friend in the head. As the batarian collapsed, Balak stared at her. “Why did you do that?”

            “Because judging by the blood on your uniform, you’re wounded. You’ve lost – I destroyed your unit and you don’t have the strength to drag me, unable to walk, back to the cruiser and escape before the SSV _Warsaw_ rocks up. I just shot the guy who _could_ carry me.” Regan bared her teeth at the batarian. “Kill me or not, you’ve lost and you’re fucked. I hear the Terminus fleets don’t respect someone who fucked up so badly.”

            Balak snarled and shot her twice in the gut with his pistol. Regan slid into darkness, smiling. She was going to die but at least she’d protected a bunch of civilians and the medals would look great on her coffin.

…

“She’s going to make it, Anderson.”

            Admiral Steven Hackett’s dry precise tenor broke through the Captain’s reverie as he waited in the _Warsaw’s_ mess hall for word on Shepard. Anderson uttered a wordless exclamation of relief as he sagged back against the wall. He’d put a lot of effort into Regan Shepard – thought of her almost as a daughter – and to know she’d repaid him, Matilda and Patel in a big way – becoming the hero he knew she could be – was almost as amazing as the relief that she would survive her once in a generation heroics.

            “And before you ask, she’ll be back in action within a few months,” Hackett added with a broad grin.

            “Thank God. I’d hate to lose our best Spectre candidate.” Anderson wiped a forehead wet with sweat.

            “After this? The brass would be idiots not to back her.” Hackett smiled again. “She’s being sent to the ICA. One of Udina’s regulations is that someone have an N-designation before their name is put forward.”

            Anderson looked in the direction of the med-lab. “Shepard’s going to reach N7. I can feel it in my bones.”

            “As can I.” Hackett folded his arms behind his back. “The Parliament’s given us the go ahead to build that prototype ship with the turians.”

            “Thank God,” Anderson said fervently.

            “By the way, you’re going to be the captain of it.” Hackett surely wasn’t smirking.

            “You’re too kind.”

            “And the Council has assigned a Spectre named Nihlus Kyrik – turian – to watch over the whole process,” Hackett continued.

            Anderson sighed and nodded. He supposed the Council had a right to keep an eye on their investment.

            The doors to the mess hall entered and a tall, black-carapaced turian with red-lit ebony armour walked in. “Captain Anderson? I’m Nihlus Kyrik.” The Spectre extended a hand and Anderson wiped off his sweaty palm before shaking it.

            “Good to meet you,” he said diplomatically. “I apologise if I look a little flustered – I’ve been waiting on the results of Lieutenant Shepard’s operation and I just got the good news she’ll make it and be able to return to combat.”

            “Shepard’s the sniper who decimated a batarian slaver squad of three hundred at Curved Valley two days ago,” Hackett explained as Nihlus’ mandibles flapped curiously.

            “I was looking up for the name of that sniper,” Nihlus admitted calmly. “Humanity isn’t _quite_ ready for a Spectre – not with the candidates we’ve been assessing – but you’re getting there.”

            “Ngaire Parata is more likely to be a Spectre’s second in command,” Anderson agreed as Hackett grimaced. “Kai Leng’s an N7 now and he’s ruthless enough, but…”

            “But he’s a racist asshole, if you’ll pardon the language,” Nihlus finished bluntly. “He’s also looted the dead and I believe there’s more bodies in his past than you might think.”

            Anderson grimaced in agreement. “Regan – Shepard – has actually studied Intergalactic Relations. Her speciality is irregular low-intensity urban warfare – she belonged to a gang of criminals, the Tenth Street Reds, when we recruited her – and she has minor biotic abilities in addition to her status as an Infiltrator-class soldier.”

            Nihlus frowned. “The Reds have ties to Cerberus.”

            “And Regan turned on them when they tried to sell children to those terrorist bastards,” Anderson pointed out.

            “Hmm, so she has standards.” Nihlus studied the ground for a moment. “I’ll add her to the list of candidates I’m personally researching. I assume you’re sending her to the ICA?”

            “Of course,” Hackett confirmed.

            “Good. Special Forces are always preferred.” Nihlus nodded cordially in farewell. “May the spirits watch over you.”

            The turian left as the two Alliance officers glanced at each other. “Is this good or bad?” Anderson asked of Hackett.

            “Good. Nihlus is ranked just below Saren amongst the Spectres, but he’s a lot friendlier towards humanity.” The Admiral folded his arms behind his back once again, studying Anderson. “Your job is to prepare Shepard for ICT. If she’s half as good as you claim, she’ll be a Spectre in ten years or less.”

            Anderson nodded and saluted the Admiral. He knew that Regan would make an excellent N7, but the hellishness of the training would make everything she’d been through feel like a walk in the park.

            _I keep on piling more and more expectations on you,_ he thought regretfully as he looked in the direction of the med-lab once again. _And somehow, you rise up and exceed them._

Doctor Karin Chakwas emerged, having cleaned up, and smiled reassuringly at Anderson. “Tough little cookie, isn’t she?” the British woman asked.

            “She is.” Anderson took a deep breath. “I need you to make sure she’s ready for ICT by the next intake.”

            “Oh, for the love of…” Karin’s voice was wearily disgusted. “It’s going to take her three months to be ready for combat but I’d have to double that for ICT.”

            “Then I’ll make sure she has those six months. But I need her in N-School pronto.” Anderson clasped his hands together. “More than just her future is riding on this, Dr Chakwas.”

            The older woman’s lips pursed but she nodded tightly. A veteran who’d survived Shanxi and the First Contact War, she knew when the balance between her oath as an Alliance soldier and the Hippocratic Oath was thin and sharp as a knife’s edge. “Very well, Captain.”

            Anderson nodded and turned away. It would be five or six years before this ship was ready but already he needed to start planning a crew.

            _I’m sorry, Regan. You just wanted a better life but I have to forge you into a Spectre. I hope one day that you don’t hate me for it…_


	6. Stand Like A Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for mentions of death and violence. Yes, the title comes from Havana Brown’s ‘Warrior’ – while Regan is very much a pub rock/Irish punk rock kind of girl, there’s a couple dance tracks in her personal soundtrack.

There were days when Regan thought Vila Militar should be Portuguese for ‘hellhole’. She wished that Balak’s bullets had killed her on those days as she struggled through the training, leading a squad of soldiers with more experience in combat than her through shitholes while under live bombardment with little food or rest. Barely six months after Elysium, she was thrown back into training that made her childhood pretty fucking idyllic with nary an apology on Anderson’s part. Only the facts that she owed him a debt that could never be repaid and that fucker Kai Leng managed to do this got her standing up when she fell in the mud and muck, trudge that extra mile, and put a fucking bullet in the combat droid’s head.

            Three months of training and she received the N1 designation. Exhausted and depleted, she blinked at Admiral Hackett as he walked in and rose unsteadily, wondering what new and wonderful variety of hellhole she was going to be dispatched to. “At ease,” the scar-faced commander said gently. “I thought I’d come by and give you the news personally.”

            “What news, sir?” she asked cautiously – it couldn’t be good. News delivered personally never was.

            “You’re getting the Star of Terra for your actions on Elysium.” Hackett studied her as she processed his words.

            “Let me guess, President Abbott’s courting the Terra Firma vote so he wants to be seen with me,” Regan finally observed dryly as she sat back down heavily on her bunk.

            “Has anyone ever told you cynicism is unbecoming in the young?” Hackett asked with equal dryness.

            “I’ve just spent three months on four hours or less sleep a day in every fucking variation of jungle, plain, urban shithole or improvised battlefield the fine instructors here can invent,” Regan retorted wearily. “And I’ve just been told that I’m going back into the wringer until I’m a fucking N7.”

            Hackett blinked. “Do you want to quit?” he asked carefully.

            Regan pursed her lips. “I figure you’re making autistic mincemeat for a reason, sir.”

            The Admiral paused and then nodded. “Since Enoggera, you’ve been on the shortlist for Spectre candidacy. Hell, Major Patel called it when you were brought in for shooting your fellow gang members. Elysium only confirmed what Anderson’s been telling me for the past five and a half years.”

            “Son of a…” Regan ran both hands over her face and through her hair. It explained a lot, including why Anderson kept an eye on her.

            “If you’re not up to it, Shepard, I understand.” Hackett sounded sincere. “Your remaining term of enlistment has been commuted. You could walk, if you wanted. You’ve certainly earned it.”

            “And do what?” Regan found herself asking. “I’m a soldier, it’s in my bones now.”

            “Between your Bachelor of Intergalactic Relations and experience as an Infiltrator, Citadel Security’s not out of the question if you wanted to remain in a quasi-military trade. Hell, if you wanted to stay with the Alliance, you can literally pick your posting.” Hackett folded his arms behind his back. “If you’ve been trudging along because you think you have no choice, Shepard…”

            “I’ve always had a choice,” she answered wearily. “I could’ve laid down and died when Balak shot me. I could’ve done a runner and joined the Blue Suns with a personal invitation from Zaeed Massani himself. I could’ve stayed a grunt and not gone to Duntroon.”

            “Then why didn’t you?” Hackett asked quietly.

            “One, I owe Anderson, Matilda and Patel too much. They took a kid from the gangs and made her a soldier.” Regan sighed and sagged back into her bunk. “And two, if not me, then who? Kai fucking Leng, the racist sociopath who robbed the dead as the face of humanity in the ultimate expression of Council authority? Hah!”

            “There’s Ngaire Parata and a young Canadian biotic named Kaidan Alenko coming up on the list,” Hackett answered carefully.

            Regan managed to conceal her start of surprise at Kaidan’s name being mentioned. Two years later and the handsome biotic with the sad, soulful eyes still haunted her. “But I’m your best choice,” she said instead.

            “You’re the only choice that is tentatively approved of by a Spectre,” Hackett confirmed. “Now you’ve achieved your N1 ranking, the only thing holding you back is actual combat experience and familiarity with zero-g environments, which is what N2-N5 are for. N6 will cover the combat experience bit.”

            “Back into the sausage grinder,” Regan groaned. Everyone said that N-School got worse with every grade and N1 had sucked worse than a Hoover with a black hole inside it.

            Hackett relaxed and Regan realised he was hoping she’d make this choice. “I figured you should know what’s at stake here,” the Admiral said quietly. “You’ve got pragmatism and morals, Shepard. Too many Spectres are ruthless when they don’t have to be.”

            “Congratulate me when I’m a Spectre,” Regan replied as she stood up. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a shower and some food, Admiral.”

            She’d put herself back into hell. Now she just had to prove she could hack it.

…

“Lieutenant Commander Regan Shepard, the Hero of Elysium, was presented with the Star of Terra by President Abbott today,” Diane Allers announced in the latest Battlespace broadcast. “This pint-sized Digger rose from obscurity as a member of a Brisbane Coast gang to become one of the finest soldiers in the Alliance military. Already a N1, she’s reportedly going to continue in ICT until she reaches the coveted N7 designation…”

            “How’s it feel to know you were shot at by a hero in the making?” Miranda Lawson asked dryly of her commanding officer, the enigmatic Illusive Man. She wasn’t supposed to know his name was Jack Harper but she did; she kept it to herself out of respect for all that Cerberus was doing to protect Oriana and humanity as a whole.

            “My sources in the Alliance brass inform me that she’s the top of the list to become a Spectre,” the Illusive Man replied calmly, only a quirk of the lips indicating his amusement at Miranda’s quip. “We couldn’t manufacture a better hero for humanity.”

            Miranda regarded the image of Shepard – a small woman with brassy-blonde hair and bad teeth – and said nothing. The autistic had every disadvantage, both genetically and from her background, and she rose like a phoenix in flight no matter what was thrown at her. “What if she doesn’t stand for humanity?” she asked cautiously in the end.

            “Then she dies,” the Illusive Man said quietly. “Regan Shepard is already a symbol of what humanity can achieve if they push themselves. Limited gene therapy, a neurodivergent viewpoint and a petty criminal background… She shouldn’t have succeeded half as well as she did.”

            “But she did,” Miranda said softly, feeling stung by his words. Engineered to be the perfect human, Miranda had been outwitted by a sixteen-year-old gangbanger with no education. Years later, it still stung.

            “Don’t put yourself down, Miranda,” the Illusive Man said gently. “It was your first mission and you were facing someone who knew her own terrain.”

            His words were kind but Miranda took them as a rebuke. “I was overconfident,” she admitted starkly.

            “You were. And you learned better.” The Illusive Man leaned back in his chair, watching Battlespace with a bemused expression. “I need you to arrange a jailbreak.”

            Miranda straightened herself. “Kai Leng?”

            “Yes. He has both the talent and the desire to eliminate Regan Shepard if we need it.” The Illusive Man smiled grimly. “David Anderson isn’t the only man who can lay plans years ahead.”

…

Regan scrubbed her armour out with a mixture of vinegar and baking soda, hoping she beat the instructor to smelling piss in her greaves. Zero-g was fucking terrifying and Regan discovered that she very much liked gravity, thank you very much.

            Still, she only had three weeks of this shit before it was time for Biology 101. Regan was used to feeling exhausted and rundown, but the knowledge that she could walk any time she wanted kept her going. Kai Leng being done for murder of a krogan had eased a knot of tension in her back that existed once she realised they were rivals for the same job.

            “Pissed yourself?” Ngaire, damn her eyes, sniffed as she entered the locker room. “Don’t worry, everyone does.”

            “I’m Lieutenant Commander fucking Shepard. I’m not allowed to piss my pants,” Regan retorted dourly as she kept on scrubbing.

            “Sure you are. I hear Admiral Hackett shit himself on his first zero-g run.” Ngaire pulled off her heavy Onyx armour and began to clean it. She was the instructor for zero-g manoeuvres, which made for some awkward moments when they weren’t swanning around in space.

            “Does he have a Star of Terra?”

            “Three of them.” Ngaire grinned and patted Regan on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll remind everyone of the time you had to sing ‘God Defend New Zealand’ in the mess hall.”

            “You’re not going to mention me doing it in my bra and knickers?” Regan asked in some disbelief.

            “I want to keep you humble, not downright terrify the new recruits.” Ngaire’s teeth flashed white in her tan face.

            “Go fuck yourself,” Regan informed her dryly. “Alenko didn’t run when he saw me naked.”

            “You hooked up with him? Don’t fucking faint.” Ngaire paused and then asked, “Did you get him before it became fraternisation?”

            “Couple days before,” Regan admitted softly. “It’s weird, but I miss him. How sad is that?”

            “You just need to get laid more,” Ngaire chuckled.

            “And have some asshat go to the tabloids about how he got to fuck the Hero of Elysium?” Regan sighed, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I’m celibate until this crap dies down.”

            “Become a Spectre. I hear they get all the cuties.” Ngaire sighed dramatically. “I’m jelly you got Alenko. He was fucking gorgeous!”

            “And good in bed too,” Regan confirmed mildly. She owed Ngaire for the whole kicking her arse at Enoggera thing.

            “Oh, those biotic vibrations…” Ngaire shook her head wistfully. “Shame he’s enlisted now.”

            “Tell me about it.” Regan finished cleaning her armour. “Does this smell like piss?”

            “Nope, just vinegar.” Ngaire smirked. “Of course, everyone will know what the smell means anyway.”

            “That’s okay,” Regan replied serenely as she rose to her feet. “Because they’ll smell it on your armour too.”

            She tipped the bucket of vinegar water over Ngaire and her Onyx armour before demonstrating the wisdom of a tactical retreat.

…

Captain Anderson looked over the long sleek lines of the _Normandy SR-1_ and sighed. It was a beautiful ship, though the newly acquired pilot’s habit of caressing the hull was just a bit creepy in the old soldier’s mind.

            Flight Lieutenant Jeff ‘Joker’ Moreau had pulled off the biggest stunt in recent Navy history, sneaking onto and stealing the most advanced ship in the fleet – all with Vrolik’s Syndrome and a sardonic smirk. Torn between outrage and hilarity, Anderson had recruited Jeff on the spot as he made the _Normandy_ dance like no one else could.

            “We have Pressley, Adams and Chakwas selected for specialist positions,” he told Admiral Hackett over his shoulder. “We need a ground team.”

            “Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko,” the old warhorse answered as he came up beside the Captain. “L2 biotic but steady – suffers migraines and that’s it. Apparently he met Shepard the day he enlisted and got an assault rifle from her because she wanted to pay what you and Matilda did for her forward.”

            Anderson noted that he said nothing of the one-night stand that the duo shared just before Alenko went to boot camp. Both had gained much-needed confidence from the liaison and because they just avoided fraternisation, Anderson hadn’t chose to bring it up. But if they were going to be on the same ground team with Regan in charge…

            _She’s a good soldier,_ he thought. _She’ll make the right decisions._

“He’ll do. There’s been rumblings from the L2 camp that they’re being marginalised while Alenko, who’s sane and stable, will go to further sympathy for biotics amongst the general populace,” Anderson agreed. “I can provide a third member from the crew of the Normandy or we can add someone later.”

            “Done.” Hackett sighed heavily. “We’ve done the best we can, Anderson. It’s up to Regan now.”

            “Then call Udina and let’s get this set into motion.” Anderson looked up at the _Normandy SR-1_. If anyone could make up for the sins and failures of his past, it would be Regan Shepard.


	7. The Wide World's End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Final chapter in this story. Trigger warnings for mentions of death and violence, and a bit of ableism. The verse Regan quotes (and the chapter title) comes from an old poem called Tom O’Bedlam.

“Commander Regan Shepard, welcome to the _Normandy_.”

            “Thanks, Captain,” Regan replied, shaking Anderson’s hand. He looked older and greyer; life in the military tended to age someone quicker than in civilian life, so the fifty-something Captain looked more like seventy but for his trim physique. “So we’re finally working together.”

            Anderson guided her onto the most expensive and cutting-edge ship in the fleet. “I had to wait until we had a ship worthy of having you as crew on board,” he told her with a smile.

            “With all due respect, sir, you’re so full of shit they should truck what comes out of your mouth to the compost factory,” Regan retorted with a grin.

            “It was suggested but our charming President is the main manure supplier and the factory couldn’t cope,” the old soldier drawled amusedly.

            “I thought we weren’t allowed to state political opinions,” Regan murmured as she underwent the decontam procedure.

            “Don’t you know? The President is chosen not for their skills as a leader, but as a living producer of compost,” Anderson said dryly.

            “That explains the smell of shit at that fancy medal ceremony,” Regan said just before the door slid up to let her inside the _Normandy_.

            “Joker, status report!” Anderson called out to the man sitting in the pilot’s seat.

            “The Normandy’s ship-shape, sir, but my request for leather seating has been denied,” he responded sardonically.

            “Commander Shepard, this reprobate is Flight Lieutenant Jeff Moreau, referred to as ‘Joker’ because it’s the politest thing I’m allowed to call him,” the Captain said, looking more amused than anything else.

            Regan grinned at the skinny, bearded pilot. “You’re the bloke who nicked the _Normandy_ , right?”

            “I did not ‘nick’ the Normandy. I took her out for a dance,” Joker replied calmly. “It wasn’t my fault I’m a better dancer than the partner the Alliance chose.”

            “Jeff has Vrolik’s Syndrome – brittle bone disease,” Anderson murmured. “Like you, he’s-“

            “If you say ‘risen above it’ or something like that, commanding officer or no I’ll punch you on behalf of myself _and_ Joker,” Regan interrupted flatly as Joker frowned. “I’m neurodivergent and he probably cracks a rib every time he laughs. Doesn’t mean we wouldn’t still be good at what we do if we weren’t disabled, sir.”

            “Of course, as the kid with the creaky legs and crutches, I had more to prove,” Joker added. “But yeah, sir, what she said.”

            Anderson held up his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry, Shepard. I didn’t realise I was being offensive.”

            “Most people don’t.” Regan sighed and ran a hand through her pale orange hair. Then she brushed it off and offered it to Joker.

            The pilot shook it. “We taking off, sir?”

            “No, we need to wait for the second member of Regan’s ground team to arrive from Vancouver.” Anderson smiled and nodded to the duo. “At ease, both of you. Shepard, introduce yourself to the crew while I brief our turian guest on the shakedown cruise protocols.”

            “Yes, sir,” Regan said, saluting the Captain before he strode away.

            “Thanks for that,” Joker said quietly. “I’m the best pilot in the Navy and they pick some jackass fresh out of flight school because of my brittle bones!”

            “Ouch,” Regan said sympathetically.

            “So I locked said jackass in the shuttle, hijacked the _Normandy_ and took her dancing.” Joker caressed the pilot’s cockpit with affection that might have been a little creepy if Regan didn’t display the same attachment to Skippy, her stuffed boxing kangaroo. “I aced the course. And then General Invectus told them that he was wrong about me and in the interests of human-turian diplomacy, I should become the pilot.”

            “Good fucking job,” Regan approved warmly.

            “Thank you. Of course, they’re doing all that ‘inspiration porn’ crap about how I became a good pilot despite my creaky bones.” Joker sniffed derisively. “I would have been a brilliant pilot, brittle bones or not. It’s my reflexes that drives this baby, not my legs.”

            Regan nodded in agreement. “Fucking oath,” she agreed.

            “Pretty gutsy of you to threaten to punch Anderson,” Joker noted as he turned around in his seat to look up at her.

            “I’ve known Anderson since I was sixteen,” Regan answered with a wry smile. “Wouldn’t call him my dad, exactly, but he’s the closest thing to it.”

            “Huh.” Joker chewed on his lip. “So, neurodivergent? They don’t mention _that_ in your media profile.”

            Regan snorted bitterly. “I’m autistic. Makes me a bloody brilliant sniper but not the most diplomatic of people. Of course, it’s not discussed – not denied, but not discussed either.”

            “Yeah, given that you’ve got the best odds to be made a Spectre…” Joker shook his head and tapped the ship’s controls gently. “So, what do you think of the _Normandy_?”

            “Beautiful. And don’t worry, I’m not a lesbian, so I won’t be hitting on your ship.” Regan grinned at Joker, who responded with a sheepish smirk.

            “Thank you. And in return, I won’t make jokes about your obvious predilection for stuffed animals,” he replied, looking at Skippy tucked under her arm pointedly.

            “You leave Skippy alone,” Regan said a little defensively.

            “Of course. Kangaroos aren’t to my taste.” Joker turned his attention to the controls. “I better get around to doing the pre-flight checks. Nice meeting you, Shepard.”

            “You too, Joker.” Regan smiled and turned away from the cockpit.

            The exit doors opened to reveal the guy from Vancouver. Tall, broad-shouldered and olive-skinned, Regan’s heart skipped a beat as she realised it was an older, more confident Kaidan Alenko.

            _Oh hell, I’m going to be commanding him,_ she thought mournfully as he stepped through the doors, wearing standard-issue Onyx armour and looking bloody good in them.

            “Commander,” he said with a smile that looked a little sad. “I’m Staff Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko.”

            Regan smiled at him a little regretfully. “Hello, Lieutenant,” she said quietly. “How’d that rifle work out for you?”

            He unholstered the weapon. “Still good.”

            “I’m glad.” Regan took a deep breath. “Welcome to the _Normandy_. Captain Anderson’s briefing our turian guest on the shakedown protocols.”

            “Nihlus Kyrik. Isn’t he a Spectre?” Kaidan asked as he stepped further into the ship, the doors closing behind him.

            “Yeah. Guess the Council’s watching over their investment.” Regan turned around to lead him further into the stealth cruiser. “The smartarse in the pilot’s seat is Jeff ‘Joker’ Moreau.”

            “Mr. ‘Let’s Steal the Normandy’,” Kaidan observed amusedly. “We’ve met.”

            “My condolences,” Regan observed dryly, finding refuge in her customary sarcasm. She wanted to rub her cheek against the light stubble on his skin, to feel the buzz of his biotics against hers. But it was now fraternisation.

            “Heh.” They passed by the galaxy map, a balding man with a beard that trimmed his lantern jaw but no moustache coming up to them, wearing an officer’s uniform.

            “I’m Navigator Pressley, Commander Shepard,” he greeted with a salute. “Behind Captain Anderson and you, I’m third in command.”

            “Good to meet you, Navigator.” Regan smiled stiffly at him. “This is Staff Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko – the poor bastard’s stuck with me on field missions.”

            “My commiserations,” Pressley said with a wry smile. “Adams is in Engineering and Dr Chakwas is in Medical. I believe that Corporal Jenkins will be the third member of your ground team while we’re in Eden Prime – he’s a local, so he knows the terrain.”

            Regan nodded briskly. Pressley looked like he knew his shit.

            “If you need to store your stuff, lockers are in the cargo bay across from the Mako,” Pressley continued. “We also have a requisition officer with real-time extranet connections to most of Terra’s big companies, but he’s going to need licences for anything… ah… exotic.”

            Regan nodded. The requisition officer supplied standard arms and armour but every one worth their salt could get their hands on better rations, exotic arms and armour, and other things at an inflated fee. She reminded herself to buy as many licences she could afford so her team had the best tools.

            “I’ll take myself and Alenko down there at once,” she replied. “No need to swan around in body armour with a platoon’s worth of weapons until we’re actually en route.”

            Pressley smirked and nodded. “Welcome to the Normandy. It’s going to be an honour to work with the Hero of Elysium.”

            Regan just managed to not groan at that. There were still days she wished Balak’s gut shot had killed her.

            Kaidan was silent until they were in the lift. Then he rested his forehead against the wall and sighed.

            “I could ask to be reassigned if you want,” he offered.

            “No. I’m not letting my love life piss on someone’s career,” Regan immediately replied. “Besides, brass hasn’t said a damned word.”

            “But they know.”

            “Probably.” Regan took a deep breath. “I won’t treat you any different to any other soldier, Kaidan. I promise.”

            “Regan.” Her name was a sigh of regret and desire. “I know. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

            Regan looked away from his eyes. There was too much in that sable gaze for her to handle for the moment. “So, what brought you to the _Normandy_?”

            “Did a stint in Vancouver and then another on Mars,” Kaidan answered, glancing at the floor. “Hackett recommended me for this mission, told me it was going to be high-profile and put L2s in a good light.”

            “I can think of no one else I’d have at my back,” Regan told him sincerely. “If Ngaire was with us, it’d be perfect, but she’s happy training wannabe N7s at the Vila.”

            “I’m kinda relieved at that,” Kaidan said fervently. “I’m not sure what was more nerve-wracking – Ngaire hitting on me or trying to hook us up.”

            “When she found out about us, she professed her jealousy,” Regan admitted wryly. “I’ve known her since Enoggera, just before I went to Duntroon, and so we’re pretty good friends.”

            “I’m sure it being two Antipodeans against the world helped,” Kaidan observed ruefully.

            “Yeah. It was generally me and her versus that prick Kai.” Regan scowled – someone had helped the son of a bitch escape the Stockade and only the gods knew where he was now.

            “There’s someone else I don’t want to run into,” Kaidan said soberly. “You know six people died during his escape?”

            “Not surprised there.” Regan clenched her fists. “If I ever get him in my sights, he’s dead.”

            Kaidan nodded grimly. “Same here.”

            The doors of the lift opened, letting them into the cargo bay. Regan quickly found their lockers while Kaidan eyed the Mako.

            “You know how to drive this?” he asked curiously.

            “Technically, yes,” she answered. “In reality… I hope you have a sick bag.”

            “Greeaat,” he drawled. “If I throw up, it’s on you.”

            “But I’m your commanding officer in the field!” Regan pointed out as she stowed her arms and body armour, stripping down to the BDUs underneath.

            “All’s fair in love, war and Mako-sickness.” Kaidan flashed her a grin and removed his Onyx armour to show a body that filled his BDUs well.

            _Dammit._ Regan moved a little bit away from him so his biotics didn’t touch her.

            “Shepard.” It was Captain Anderson talking over comms. “Is Alenko on board?”

            “Yes, sir. We’re in the cargo hold,” she reported.

            “Good. We’re about to take off.”

            Regan exchanged glances with Kaidan. “Join Joker at the cockpit?”

            “Why not? I’ve never gone through a mass relay before.”

           

            They returned to the lift with a nod to the requisition guy. As the doors closed, Regan sighed inwardly.

            She would need to prove herself as a Spectre while commanding the guy who made her hormones jump around like performing varren and acting as the face of humanity to a sceptical Council.

_“By a knight of ghosts and shadows_

_I summoned am to tourney,_

_Ten leagues beyond the wide world’s end –_

_Methinks it is no journey.”_

            _Tom O’ Bedlam sounds about right,_ Regan thought after muttering the verse under her breath. _Because I don’t go barking mad after this, it’ll be a fucking miracle._


End file.
